On The Wings Of Angels
by RhiannonNymph
Summary: One day in Hell, Dean hears something out of place. He doesn't realize what it is until it's too late. Rated for a couple a not-so-nice words.


**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own squat. Ain't it a sad, sad life?

**A/N:** Came to me when I turned on the radio and the first thing I heard was what I titled the fic. It's from Alan Jackson's "Sissy's Song". Also, I apologize for anyone who has me on Author Alert and got a message about this three times. I'm having posting issues with this fic.

Enjoy and review. Thanks.

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**ON THE WINGS OF ANGELS**

He was bound so tightly that he couldn't shiver, couldn't breathe.

Did he breathe, did he need to?

Did it matter?

No. And it didn't stop him from using what breath he did have from screaming his brother's name.

Then Alastair showed up, and he tore through Dean like it was his favorite game; then pieced him back together again like a prized possession.

Rip-bleed, tare-scream, skin-beg and bleed and bleed and bleed until he couldn't anymore.

Then again. For-EVER.

Forever and ever _Sammy's safe _amen.

Alastair, Dean got to know him well, he loved his job. The blood and the gore and the bits of people's souls - it was like a springtime shower for the bastard. He fucking reveled in it.

So the first time he made his offer, Dean told him to stick it where the sun shines and to head top side. Like, top_ top_ side. Tell God I said hey, top side.

If he'd been able to differentiate between the days, he'd have said that one was the worst; until he said it again.

There were constants in Hell. Fear and terror and pain and pain and pain and_ painpainpain _and fear and terror. And screams. The constant screams and the constant laughter of the creatures dealing out the pain. It was hard to hear above the screams - not that he figured there _was_ anything else to hear. Harder still to hear over his own screams.

Screams and laughter; it was the soundtrack to his existence.

Then one day (night?) Alastair is talking to him, cooing at him and - _what is that noise_ - and Dean waits for the always given offer, for the greedy smile while It waits for his answer.

It's always the same. _I'm walking on sunshine-_

He was always cut off as any given demon ripped into him. That's how it goes for what seems like eons.

He didn't think he would, but even in Hell, he dreams. At first there's Sammy. Sammy always with a smile and the black eyes. He thinks maybe he can change those eyes; they're his dreams, right? Then he remembers he's in Hell and - _what is that noise_ - he decides he'd have better luck just trying to dream of something else.

So he does. And it's the sweetest thing Dean will never see.

When he's able, Alastair fills his dreams, strung up on his own rack with fear dancing in his eyes at Dean's approach and _what __**is **__that noise?_

The pain comes back full force. There's no reprieve, not ever.

He never tried to count, how could he? It was all he could do to remember his name, to remember to say _NO._ But it had been years, he could _feel _the years. He counted his time in Alastair's question, in moments of agony. In raging desperation to _feel anything else, God, anything else…_

He doesn't last much longer after that.

"So Dean," It's grinning, It's fucking grinning, "whadda'ya say?"

He wants to wipe the smile off It's face, but he's too scared, so tired and _please**please**, anything else._

_What is that noise?_

"Okay."

And Alastair's eyes light up like Dean has never seen, but he can't make himself ask why. He doesn't care; he just wants down, he just wants to not feel. He gets down and feels the rock solid heat of Hell under his feet, and Alastair hugs him. It makes Dean want to puke.

He didn't have a second to even look around before a blade his shoved in his hand and he'd pushed toward a weeping woman. Only a second after that Alastair was breathing down his back, and Dean was too scared of being back where he was to not do what he knew was wanted.

So he ripped into the woman.

And he ripped into others, dozens a day. He just kept going, all the pain and hurt and anger that was his was someone else's now and - _what is that noise_ - he's only almost sorry.

One day, he's ripping this kid limb from limb and _damn that fucking noise, it's always there_. And that thought gives him pause. Fear and pain and screams, those were the constants. And this noise, this sound…he didn't know what it was, but knew he'd been hearing it for some time. Since before he got down. And it's not right, it doesn't fit.

So he listens, he wants to know what it is. And in his listening the kid gets a moment to himself, and Alastair shows up when the screams stop.

"Dean, Dean, Dean…" Alastair slithers up, puts an arm around Dean and pulls him back to the boy, "It's the angels. They don't know they've already lost."

Dean doesn't know what that means, so he goes back to work.

Over the next few days or weeks or years the noise gets louder. Dean starts to hear chatter from demons, and they're scared and that scared Dean. Something big is walking towards him, he can feel it, but he's not sure how he feels_ about_ it.

What could be worse than what he's already doing? Hell for a hunter, hurting people he could be saving.

Then one day Alastair shows up and the sound is right behind him. It sounds like fighting and death and...fluttering? The demons puts takes up a stance between whatever's coming and Dean, but Dean moves to the side, blade in hand and watches. Whatever it is is so bright that Dean has to close his eyes. And he feels. He _feels_. Not pain, and fear and terror, he feels like it's okay. Like things could get better. He works his eyes open, taking in light like he hasn't seen in…well, he doesn't even know.

What he sees is more beautiful, more welcome than anything he could have imagined, ever. Alastair's words make sense now, _it's the angels._

There's an angel here. In Hell. And he knows, _knows_ it's there for him.

He would have cried if he'd been able, but the heat stole any tears he might have shed.

The angel beams with light whiter than white, a color Dean has never seen. He has to close his eyes against it, and when he next opens them he's on his knees and Alastair is no where to be seen. The angel is right before Dean. He can't make out its form, it's glowing _so bright,_ but he hears it tell him, "Rise."

So he does. There's a burning sensation piercing through his shoulder, and it's the best thing he's ever felt, because it doesn't hurt.

When he opens his eyes again he's alone. The light is gone and it's dark and cramped. And he can't remember why exactly, but the air that singeing his lungs now is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

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The End.

Let me know what you think! Thanks!


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